


Time to go

by riverlethe (mwh120)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst and Humor, Pre-Series, hints at wincest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-24
Updated: 2013-07-24
Packaged: 2017-12-21 05:23:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/896290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mwh120/pseuds/riverlethe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A re-telling of the events leading up to Sam going off to Stanford.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Time to go

The temperature plummeted  as the moon crept stealthily higher, icy tendrils of night air deftly finding every gap and opening in Dean’s shirt and jacket, caressing his skin and making him shiver. It was supposed to have been so simple, he thought to himself sourly as he crept through the woods, listening to his brother lumbering behind him. It really was getting a bit much; now that Sammy had shot up so much it was like being followed by a _god-damn_ Sasquatch, except of course, given that no one had actually _seen_ Bigfoot, it clearly made less noise. He stopped short as his brother drew up beside him, glaring at him heatedly. “Dean, I thought you were supposed to be good at this outdoor crap,” Sam hissed “You’re making so much noise you may as well be playing your crappy Metallica mix to let everything in the woods know where we are.”

Dean goggled at his brother unbelievingly, mouth working silently. Sam lifted his chin, looking superior, and pushed past to take the lead, leaving Dean to scramble after him, fuming. It had seemed like a simple job, he thought again as he ground his teeth watching Sam’s back disappear ahead, quite simple really when it all started the day before...

 

*****

 

John had kicked their training into high gear after Sam’s graduation, leaving little time for anything else. Dean had been a bit surprised that Sam seemed willing to go along with things, given how unhappy he had been over the last year or so of high school. If he had to be honest, Dean had been bracing himself for yet another clash as the school year had drawn to an end, a clash which for reasons he didn't understand had never materialized. It had helped perhaps that being in a small town most of Sam’s classmates had thought little beyond staying put and joining the family farm or store or what-have-you, but Dean had seen the way Sam had looked at the few who were heading off to college a few towns over. Envious, Dean would have said. And the sadness that he had grown accustomed to seeing lurking below the surface if he really studied his brother’s face would be obvious, just for an instant before it would be masked again, gone unless you knew Sam as well as he did. It had also helped that his father had been around for graduation day, the two of them scrubbed clean, looking a little raw and uncomfortable in shirts and ties, with Sam looking goofy in a bright purple gown, hair for once neatly slicked back. They had both been a bit stunned as Sam had walked away with an armload of prizes, plaques and medallions clinking together as he returned to the stage again and again, while his classmates cheered him on. John had looked distinctly uncomfortable surrounded by a crowd of teachers all eager to sing Sam’s praises, but Dean had looked at his brother grinning with exhilaration and thought his heart might burst with pride. “Come here you big egghead,” he deadpanned, lunging at Sam to mess up his hair, fingers playing across the nape of Sam's long neck. 

“ Awww…Dean, come on!” Sam huffed, but Dean felt him relax in his arms, and some one took their picture, the two of them, arms draped around each other’s shoulders, smiling out at the world. It was now one of his two most treasured belongings, tucked into the frame of second, a worn photograph of his parents, young and smiling, one of the only things that survived the fire that had torn apart his world all those years ago.

 

Sam had tucked away all his awards in a box under his bed as soon as they got home, as if they had never existed, and had said nothing about it. Instead he had quietly gone along with whatever his father planned without protest. The three of them had spent months together training, working odd jobs and hunting. Sam had taken to Latin like a fish to water and had seemed genuinely happy as he pored over stacks of dusty books and manuscripts, lips mouthing words as he frowned in concentration, occasionally chewing on the end of an already gnawed-short pencil. As the summer had faded away, they had all gone hunting together again, just like they done before. And just as before, they always seemed to end up in some dank cemetery, Sam and Dean covered in mud and sweat as they dug up yet another grave while their father watched. The fact that he had taken to setting up a camp-stool while they wallowed in mud, earthworms and corpses in various states of decay had meant the novelty had worn thin fairly quickly. As the winter drew on, the steady grey rains seemed to bring out the worst in John and Sam, too alike for their own good, Dean mused sometimes, and they argued constantly, Sam chafing at life.

“What’s up with you?” Dean demanded as they sat together one afternoon, cleaning soot from the rifle barrels. “What do you mean?” Sam simmered as he jerked another gun from the pile. “What do you mean, what do I mean? You know exactly what I mean, you’ve been acting like you have a stick up your ass the last few weeks,” Dean looked at him accusingly. “Are you trying to get Dad to chew you a new one on purpose?”

Sam looked sheepish, but said seriously “Dean, you know I’ve been trying, but… But haven’t you ever thought about doing something else with your life?”

Dean looked up startled to see his brother looking at him intently. “Sammy, no. What could be more important than this?”

Sam shook his head, exasperated. “ Life, Dean. Life is more important than this. I gotta say, I don’t know how you’ve done it for so long. It was ok when we started, but I want to see more, _do_ more than just follow Dad around and become a hunter…” he trailed off as Dean stared at him. “You better watch it Sammy,” he growled in disbelief, feeling cold tendrils clutch at him, “saying that sort of stuff..”

“Just forget it ok?” Sam said quietly, looking stricken. Dean relented, feeling relieved, and gave him a little shove, and Sam sat pushed up against him, close enough for Dean to feel him radiating warmth as they finished cleaning up in silence.

 

Their father had been mid-tirade about some or other failing they had apparently demonstrated in spades during the last hunt when Dean felt Sam stirring rebelliously next to him. John’s eyes snapped toward them flashing angrily, and it didn’t take a genius to realize he was going to bite Sam’s head off if he opened his mouth. Sam clueless as ever when it came to their father, was on the verge of launching into full angry teenager mode, and Dean quickly put his hand on Sam’s knee. Sam looked at him, and seeing the warning look on Dean’s face settled back down. “You smart asses think you can do this by yourselves don’t you?” their father spat out, catching the interplay and growing incensed that Dean seemed to have more influence over Sam than he ever did. “Well, maybe it’s time you realize hunting isn’t all fun and games and that you should be begging me to work you even harder every day. Fine, here’s what’s going to happen, Sam. We have two jobs this weekend; I’ll take the werewolf and you two boneheads can deal with the haunted house up off route 23.” John looked at their stunned faces and added with a stern look “after all, you’ve got pretty good at digging  
up graves, so I’m sure it will be a piece of cake. But if you mess this up…”

 

*****

 

And that was pretty much how they had ended up here. Except, it hadn’t been a piece of cake, Dean acknowledged ruefully. Sure, they had set off loaded with shotguns, salt and adrenaline, but things had come undone pretty smartly. Turned out it wasn’t just your average haunted house, but a house haunted by one crazy and god-damn _powerful_ vengeful spirit. A crazy vengeful spirit who it turned out had its own fan club of crazy cultists, some happy band of tripped out locals tricked up in fancy-schmancy black robes who were getting off on using the spirit to get rid of local hobo’s, troublemakers and the odd hitchhiker. May not have been the best idea, 'cause after he and Sam had busted up their little ceremony, it had turned out to be a pretty indiscriminate vengeful spirit, happily taking out a number of them on the way out. And there was the kicker; after all their efforts, of taking care of the cultists, salting a fair number of piles of bones and burning the place down, the way out had been the front door, not up in the puff of smoke you would expect to see after a job well done. Nope, it had sailed out the front door surprising a few fleeing locals (who were finding long black robes didn’t make the best fleeing outfits at all), to say nothing of the surprise it had given him and Sam. “Well, rats,” Sam said wide-eyed, mouth hanging open.

 

“Rats, Sammy? Rats? That’s all you can come up with?”

 

“The bones must be somewhere else, Dean, we’re going to have to find them before that thing comes back for us..” Sam said breathing heavily. “Really Sherlock? No flies on you,” Dean said dripping with sarcasm. “Ok, time for plan B.”

“We have a plan B?”

“Well, we will have by the time we catch ourselves one of the fan club and find out where they’ve hidden the bones”.  A bit of friendly persuasion later, they had their location and were off into the woods, trying not to draw the attention of the few die-hard (at least Dean fervently hoped they would) cultists no doubt still lurking around.

 

Sam stopped suddenly and Dean collided with his back. “Look,” Sam whispered, “they are over there”. Dean peered over his shoulder at the cluster of black-robed figures clearly guarding an elaborately decorated casket. “So much for plan B, Sammy. I’ll draw them off and you salt those bones.” Without stopping to think, Dean leapt past his brother, ignoring Sam’s strangled cry of “Dean! Wait!” Things had seemed to go according to plan as they had scattered, chasing after him as he roared around them, and Sam was able to slip closer and get to work. A flicker of movement caught his eye and he brought his shotgun up in time to deflect a wickedly sharp blade aimed at his neck. Panting, Dean turned to face its wielder, and they circled each other warily. Seconds later he felt an agonizing burning in his back as the ghost materialized behind him, sinking its claws into his flesh as it moved past him towards the knife-wielding man in black. He screamed again as the blade whirred down, tracing a lightning bolt of pain that seared his right side and thigh. Dean fell to his knees as blood welled up between his fingers, obsidian in the moonlight, suddenly pouring from his thigh. The head of the cultist fell beside him, and the ghost turned back, advancing slowly flickering in-and-out, claws dripping. Dean could feel the cold start to take him when suddenly it flashed up in smoke and flame and was gone. Sam was at his side, calling his name in panic as he saw the blood. “Sammy,” he croaked as the world went black.

 

Dean felt movement and realized Sam was carrying him, his cheek burning against Sam’s bare chest. Sam’s face swam into view overhead, pale and tremulous, tears streaking down his cheeks and dripping onto Dean’s face. “Hold on Dean, please,” Sam pleaded, “we’re almost at the car, we’ll get help”.  Dean woke again as Sam laid him on the back seat of the Impala, skin gleaming with sweat, and he realized with a start that Sam had used his shirt and jacket to staunch the bleeding, wrapped tightly around his thigh. “Don’t let me get blood on the upholstery,” he managed to croak,hoping to calm his brother, “it’s a bitch to get out..” before passing out again.

 

He woke again in the hospital, leg trussed up like a turkey, the doctors telling him how lucky he was to have made it, if it hadn’t been for his brother, maybe he wouldn’t have. Home a few days later, still weak. He would doze for hours, his father or Sam hovering at his side, and when he would wake to find the room empty, their muffled voices, raised in anger would echo up from the room below to let him know he wasn't alone. Neither would speak to him about it directly; his father would visibly push aside his anger and mumble on about the weather, and Sam, worn and brooding would sit there and tell him to eat whatever meal he had brought up with him.

 

It was the sound of them arguing that woke him a night or two later. He felt surprisingly chipper he thought, weak, but the pain was gone and he could feel that sense of itchy tingling that told him his wounds were on the mend. Carefully he dressed and made his way downstairs. He stopped outside the kitchen as the argument started up again, muffled at first, then shockingly loud he heard his father’s voice “… we almost lost Dean! We almost lost your brother, Sammy. Because of you and your do-it-yourself attitude! You need to listen to me more, if you would just do what I tell you to…” He could hear the pain in Sam’s voice as he said in a defeated tone “Dad, I know alright. You think I don’t know what almost happened? I love Dean..” his voice broke for a moment, “ Dean is my whole life, Dad. I’d die before I let anything happen to him again. But Dad, if you think I want to go hunting by myself you don't understand me at all, and I'm not sure you ever did. It’s the whole situation Dad, you are obsessed with hunting, obsessed. We aren’t your sons, we are just a set of tools to you aren’t we? Sometimes I don’t think you care about us at all. This isn’t any kind of life, we need to be able to just grow up like other kids without worrying about getting someone hurt.”

“Normal?” John sneered, “That’s what you want? You think that pretending to be normal will make all the things in the night disappear? Forget it Sam, you need to grow up and accept what I need is..” but Sam interrupted him, angry and determined. “What you need? No, Dad, what about what I need? Or Dean needs? We have the right to decide for ourselves what we want from life. I was going to turn this down, but I think I’m going to say yes, now”.

Dean could hear Sam throw something at their father, the sound of a papers rustling, a hiss of air as his father breathed in suddenly, then “Is this what I think it is?” uttered in low, furious tones. Dean had never heard their father sound so hurt and angry before. Dean pushed his way into the kitchen, his father and brother turning to him with shocked looks. “Dean, get back to bed,” Sam pleaded.

Dean, ignored him, hobbling to the table and bracing himself on it looked at his father. “For the record, Sammy didn’t get us into this, Dad. You can’t blame him for what happened to me, it’s just part of the job.”

His father gave him a quelling look “You think I would have let you go off on your own? Sam is just too good at pushing my buttons. You really want to stand up for your brother now? Take a good look at what he thinks about you.” John slid the envelope towards Dean, ignoring Sam’s stricken look.

 

Dean looked down, an official-looking crest and the word Stanford pummelling his brain before the envelope slipped from his suddenly nerveless hand. He stared at his brother who was watching him, face white. “Dean..” Sam started, voice catching, muscles in his neck jumping as he swallowed convulsively. “Dean, I was going to tell you. I was hoping…hoping you’d come with me or something…”

“Sam…” he said, and watched the realization dawn in his brother’s eyes, leaving only a look of heartbreak. “Dean, _please_. It’s just school, just for a couple of years..” Sam almost begged.

 

His father said matter of factly, in a calm voice which was all the more terrifying because of it, “Sam, you think you can just walk out that door and come waltzing back in a couple of years? Well, you’re wrong. You walk out that door, then just keep walking, you hear me? You need to make your mind up now: you’re either part of this family, or you are gone. Gone..”

Dean gasped, looking at his father incredulously. His father shot him a look that brooked no dissent. “I’m going out and when I get back you better be sitting here ready to apologize, or you better be out of this house for good..” John stared at Sam again for long seconds, then abruptly walked out, the truck roaring from the driveway minutes later.

Sam smiled sadly at Dean and walked out, heading upstairs, leaving only the gentle tick-tock of the clock, slowly marking time for company.

 

Dean saw his brother leaning against the wall of the bus depot, collar turned up against the cold, face lost in the deep shadows cast by the lone light swinging overhead. He had a worn duffel bag at his feet, the sleeve of a shirt trailing from the zipper, and he kicked at desolately as he shivered constantly. Sam gasped when he saw Dean struggle towards him. “Dean!” “What are you doing here, you need to be resting!”

“Where else am I going to be, idiot? You think I’m just going to let my brother leave like this? No way Sammy..” Dean pulled him into a rough embrace.

Sam pulled back slightly and looked at him sadly. “It’s Sam now, Dean. And yes, you are. You heard what Dad said…” despite his best efforts at self-control Sam broke down, sobbing uncontrollably as his brother held him.

“Ahh, Sammy. Why Stanford? It’s all the way across the damn country, man! Where are you going to go until school starts?”

Sam laughed a little through his tears, and bent to get his bag, the bus pulling slowly into the station. “Time to go, Dean….I’ll figure something out, don’t worry about it. Take care of yourself. And Dad too, ok?” he stared deeply into Dean’s eyes.

“Sam, wait!” Dean said roughly, and Sam looked down in surprise at what Dean was shoving into his hands, tears welling up again. “Dean, _no_. This picture of Mom and Dad.. it’s all you have left of them, man. I know how much you love this photo. I can’t take it.”

“Sam, you’re gonna need it more than me, you need to remember where you came from after all this..” Dean growled, feeling his eyes prickling. Sam hugged him, lips pressed gently against the angle of his jaw, then without a word turned and walked towards the bus.

Dean stood and watched, the engine revving up with a cloud of smoke that enveloped him. His resolve broke, and he struggled after it, yelling for his brother. He could see Sam’s pale face looking back, hand pressed longingly against the window, but it didn’t stop. A sharp pain in his leg brought him up short, and he stood there watching it pull further away, riding into the night with his Sam. A hand clasped his shoulder, and turned to see his father, drunk for the first time in memory, holding onto him tightly. “Lets go home Dean” he heard him say quietly, and he knew then where he needed to be.

**Author's Note:**

> Usual disclaimers.  
> Trying a slightly different tone for this one, I know it's well-travelled ground, but still wanted to try.


End file.
